


heat in the dust

by freloux



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Amnesia, F/M, Fingerfucking, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 16:16:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5877358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freloux/pseuds/freloux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks he knew someone once with a smile like that. (Set in/inspired by "Hell Bent.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	heat in the dust

Sunglasses. Chelsea boots. Skinner than a cigarette. He knows that he looks like a bit of a stereotype, but he doesn't care much. At this point he's earned the right to be. He opens the door and the bell overhead jangles. Empty diner. Smells like grease. Windows probably haven't been opened in years. It's a seedy joint. That's all right. He's been in seedier.

There's a sound through it all, as he walks in, that beeps and vworps over the clank of the industrial kitchen. The noise is familiar to him somehow, but he wouldn't be able to explain why. His guitar strap digs into the fabric of his jacket, like a hand at his shoulder. An imprint that says, _Come and see_.

The Doctor looks around and discovers that the diner isn't as empty as he first thought. There's a woman working behind the counter. She's tiny. Cute, even, if he'd admit that. (He doesn't usually admit things like that - only under extreme duress.) She's got a blue and white waitress outfit on and turns at the sound of the bell. Her expression is hopeful, as if she's been waiting for him.

The waitress reminds him of...someone, he just can't think who at the moment. He shakes his head. It'll come to him eventually. It's just that he's not even sure that she's really there. His life feels like a dream sometimes. He thinks he sees her - that girl, whoever she was - everywhere he goes. A mirage, some shimmering illusion in the desert that he just drove through. Memories that flicker at the back of his mind, always out of reach.

The sun streams in through the windows, turned red and burnished gold from the desert outside. It complements the woman's skin and her dark brown eyes, makes the tips of her eyelashes silvery pale. It reflects off the slushie machines behind her as well. A mechanical glint that's reassuring. He's always been at home amongst gadgets and things like that.

The Doctor sits down at the counter and plays her a scrap of song. He conjured it up from somewhere. Sometimes it feels like that song is the only thing he's got left. He strums a few chords and notices that - is she crying? Something welling up, blurring her eyes. No, it must be a trick of the light.

While he plays, he talks to her a little. Sitting across from her, he falls into this easy and familiar cadence, which is odd. After all, she's a stranger. She fidgets as she listens to him: adjusts the multicoloured straws in their container, wipes down the counter for the umpteenth time, straightens packets of ketchup and mustard that don't need straightening. Her movements imply distraction, but every time she meets his gaze, her eyes are so big and sincere that he knows she's been paying attention. For some reason she'd like to hear his stories. He's more than happy to share them with her. It lightens the burden.

Finally, the Doctor runs out of stories to tell. He stares through the windows towards the dusty expanse beyond them. A few tumbleweeds blow randomly past, under a clear and vivid sky. His truck sits outside, waiting to carry him down that lonely stretch, anywhere he wants. He's done being lonely, though. Right now he wants to feel something different, if only for a moment. His restless hunger has morphed into a simpler need. He sets down his guitar - his only companion these days - and flicks his eyes up and down the woman across from him. Taking her in. Mystery woman that she is, this girl seems to understand. She sets down her notepad, her pen, her waitress accoutrement, and gives him a kind smile. He thinks he knew someone once with a smile like that.

Then she motions him behind the counter and into a world that's technicolour bright. Slushies that are red and yellow orange, sticky sweet. The walls around them pinkish white. And her waitress uniform, so blue it's almost neon.

The slushie machines go on whirring quietly. Churning chemicals. His own hearts toss and turn against each other in his chest as he loops his fingers around her wrist, pulls her close, and hears her small note of surprise. He nudges his thigh between her legs as if to ask a question that he himself doesn't know the answer to. Her human weight presses against him. He can feel her heart trembling in her chest, a counterpoint to his two beats. He's crowding into her, pressing her against the ledge of the counter, but when she turns her face up towards his, he holds himself back. He doesn't want to kiss her - not now, not yet. Instead, he puts his hands on her upper thighs, seeking. (He's been seeking for a long time.) He pulls down her knickers, just enough to give him access. Separating fingertips. His fingers seem to settle comfortably there as he pauses to consider all her smooth little layers before pressing on and continuing deeper into overheated skin. A slow drip down his fingers as they curve up into her easily. Like something sliding back into place. Almost. He makes a beckoning motion inside her, as if that will make the memories return.

And yet he still has an utter out-of-body dissociation, even as he watches her ponytail come loose and her eyes go wider. She lifts and lowers herself onto his hand, rolling her hips and guiding his touch. Her knickers shift down her legs and end up as an abandoned scrap of fabric on the linoleum.

It seems that this means more to her than it does to him. Bizarrely, there's a tiny part of him that _wants_ this to have a greater meaning. He wants to know why she's looking at him with such tenderness, such recognition. And why, after she comes apart on his hand, she tells him _thank you_.


End file.
